Humble Boy

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Characters

  Act One

  Act Two

  By the Same Author

  About the Author

  Copyright

  For my parents

  Humble Boy was commissioned by Anna Mackmin and Matthew Byam Shaw. It had its world premiere at the Royal National Theatre, London, in August 2001 before transferring to the West End under Matthew Byam Shaw and Act Productions Ltd in January 2002.

  Humble Boy had its U.S. premiere at the Manhattan Theatre Club in New York City in May 2003; Lynne Meadow, artistic director, and Barry Grove, executive producer. Humble Boy was directed by John Caird; sets and costumes were designed by Tim Hatley; lights were by Paul Pyant; and sound was by Christopher Shutt. The production stage manager was Roy Harris.

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Felix Humble

  Jared Harris

  Mercy Lott

  Mary Beth Hurt

  Flora Humble

  Blair Brown

  Jim

  Bernie McInerey

  George Pye

  Paul Hecht

  Rosie Pye

  Ana Reeder

  Humble Boy, presented in association with Matthew Byam Shaw and Anna Mackmin, was first performed on the Cottesloe stage of the Royal National Theatre on 9 August 2001, with the following cast:

  Felix Humble Simon Russell Beale

  Mercy Lott Marcia Warren

  Flora Humble Diana Rigg

  Jim William Gaunt

  George Pye Denis Quilley

  Rosie Pye Cathryn Bradshaw

  Music played live by Charlotte Bradburn (saxophone), Adam Caird (piano), Zoe Martlew (cello)

  Director John Caird

  Designer Tim Hatley

  Associate Costume Designer Lucy Roberts

  Lighting Designer Paul Pyant

  Music Joe Cutler

  Sound Designer Christopher Shutt

  Company Voice Work Patsy Rodenburg

  The Royal National Theatre production of this play was recorded by the National Video Archive of Performance at the Theatre Museum.

  Characters

  in order of appearance

  Felix Humble

  Mercy Lott

  Flora Humble

  Jim

  the gardener

  George Pye

  Rosie Pye

  Act One

  SCENE ONE

  Set: a pretty country garden. Perhaps the suggestions of a house or a glass conservatory from which the characters enter into the garden. A patio area, perhaps with a path through the garden. At the back there is an area for gardening tools; a gardening chair or stool. There is a garden hosepipe wound up there. Something of a lawn with borders. A rose bush. At the end of the garden there is a large beehive. The suggestion of an apple tree – perhaps just some overhanging branches with a few apples.

  The stage is in darkness. There is music. Perhaps resonant of ‘The Flight of the Bumblebee’. The beehive lights up to suggest the bees leaving the hive. The lights fade up on the rest of the garden. The music is still playing and the hive continues to throb with light.

  Felix Humble walks in a stumbling, uncertain way into the garden. He is transfixed by the hive. He is an overweight but not unattractive man of about thirty-five. He wears old and slightly greying cricket whites, despite the fact that he is not a sportsman by any stretch of the imagination. He climbs up the steps and takes off the lid of the hive and looks in. The music ends.

  Mercy Lott enters the garden. She is wearing black clothes with brown shoes. She is in her late fifties, a petite and timid, mousy woman. She watches Felix with concern. She approaches him but doesn’t get too close. Felix glances at her, then returns his attention to the hive.

  Felix (he stumbles on the letter ‘b’) The b–b–b–bees have gone.

  Mercy Yes, dear. Will you come in now?

  Felix They took the b–bees away. I saw them.

  Mercy Your mother isn’t cross. She just wants you to come in.

  Felix There were four of them. The bee-keepers. All in white.

  Mercy I’m sure if you just say a little sorry to her –

  Felix They looked like astronauts.

  Mercy Did they?

  Felix Or cosmonauts. Depending.

  Mercy On what, dear?

  Felix If we were in Russia.

  Mercy Is it still called Russia? Russia?

  Felix What?

  Mercy Russia? Is it still called Russia? I can’t keep track. Anyway, your mother’s waiting inside for you.

  Felix puts the lid back on and climbs slowly and awkwardly down.

  Felix What do you call a group of b–bee-keepers, Mercy?

  Mercy Is this a joke? I’m not very good with jokes, dear.

  Felix No, I mean what’s the word? Like a flock of sheep, a herd of cows, a pack of dogs, a – an exaltation of larks.

  Mercy Is it really? An exaltation. How lovely.

  Felix What is it for b–bee-keepers?

  Mercy Do you know? I’ve no idea.

  Felix What is it for astronauts? A group of astronauts?

  Mercy Shall we discuss it inside, dear?

  Felix Something to do with them being white. And weightless. And silent.

  Mercy We shouldn’t leave your mother on her own with all the others.

  Felix I just have to find the right word.

  Mercy We really should support your mother.

  Felix (a flash) I can’t go in until I’ve found the right words. Come on. A swarm of b–bees. A what of b–bee-keepers? A what of astronauts? A what? There must be a word for it. The word must exist. I just need to get this – just … think logically. There were four of them. They were dressed in white – they took the bees away.

  Mercy A heavenly host?

  Felix What?

  Mercy A heavenly host! A heavenly host of bee-keepers, stroke astronauts. I like it. (Mercy glances anxiously towards the house. She sees Flora approaching.) Please let’s go in now.

  Felix Or an apocalypse. An apocalypse of bee-keepers.

  Mercy Lovely. Even better. That’s settled. In we go then.

  Flora enters. She is a very attractive woman in her late fifties. She looks young for her age. She wears a stylish navy blue dress and Jackie Onassis glasses.

  Mercy Flora! We were just coming in. Weren’t we, Felix? We were just sorting out what you call a group of bee-keepers and then we were right with you. Do you need me to do more sandwiches? She’s not angry. You’re not angry, are you, Flora?

  Flora No.

  Mercy There. I told you she wasn’t angry. We can all go in now. Your mother isn’t angry with you.

  Felix Yes she is.

  Flora (calmly) I am not angry, Felix. I am incandescent with rage.

  Mercy Oh dear.

  Felix (stammering badly) An apocalpse of b–b–b–b–bee-keepers. What do you think of that for a collective noun, Mother? It’s not b–b–bad, is it?

  Flora Stop that, Felix. You haven’t done that since you were at prep school.

  Mercy He’s just a little jittery.

  Flora He’s doing it to annoy me.

  Mercy I’m sure he’s not – you’re not, are you, Felix?

  Flora He can speak perfectly well, if he wants to. He’s doing it on purpose.

  Felix (extreme frustration) I’m trying to b–b–b
–b–b–

  Mercy (supplying the word for him) Behave? He’s trying to behave, Flora.

  Flora (coolly) I’m afraid, Felix, you will not get the sympathy vote. Today your father has a prior claim.

  Felix I saw them, Mother. The apocalypse of b–b–b–(He gives up.) They were here. While my father was being consigned to dust. You got rid of them immediately. His be– his be– be–

  Flora I got rid of the bees on professional advice. They were swarming. Since your father’s death they have developed very alarming tendencies.

  Felix P–perhaps they were angry.

  Mercy Felix.

  Felix I came home and I went through the house and I find all my father’s be–be–be– all his things gone. All his clothes.

  Mercy Flora very kindly gave them to me. For the Romanian orphans.

  Flora His bee-keeping suit is still there. In the garage. It is a constant reminder.

  Mercy I could have taken it but Jean who runs the shop was worried there wouldn’t be much call.

  Felix I come home – and there is just an absence.

  Flora Don’t question what I do, Felix. You weren’t here.

  Felix I’m trying to find the right words.

  Flora Oh yes, Felix, you carry on. That is what this day has been lacking. Yes. There we all were, waiting in the church for you to find just the right words. Waiting for my clever son, my golden boy, the Cambridge don, to deliver his father’s oration.

  Felix I’m not a don.

  Flora There we all were, thinking he will make this bloody bloody awful thing … better – oh, we will cry but we will be uplifted. But instead you, let me find the exact word now, you absconded.

  Felix I’m not well.

  Flora Buggered off.

  Felix I have p–pills.

  Flora And so it falls to an amateur entomologist, an insect man, not even a close friend, a passing acquaintance of your father’s, to find the right words. The bon mot.

  Mercy He did very well, considering.

  Flora He did not do well, Mercy. He compared my husband’s career to the life cycle of an aphid.

  Mercy I liked the bit about you spinning a web around him.

  Flora Oh yes, there was no end to his metaphorical prowess. Men who spend their waking hours studying the mating rituals of arachnids should not be allowed out.

  Felix They’re his friends.

  Flora They were his friends. Friends of the late James Humble. A group of tedious entomologists. No, no, let me adhere to the linguistic rules that have been imposed on us today. A boredom of entomologists. A woeful irritation of insect men. Open up their collective thorax and you will not find a beating heart among them.

  Mercy Shall I go and make some more sandwiches? I thought the beef paste was going down rather well.

  Felix I haven’t b–b–been well.

  Flora Your father is dead, Felix. Your being unwell barely registers on the Richter scale.

  Felix I tried to sp–speak – to sum his life up –

  Flora We are every one of us unwell. Do not deceive yourself that you hold the monopoly. Mercy’s not well. She hasn’t been right in years.

  Mercy Well, a little arthritis in my back –

  Flora And I am recovering from major surgery.

  Mercy Oh, she is.

  Felix (quietly) P–plastic.

  Flora What did you say?

  Felix A nose job is not major surgery.

  Mercy Oh, but her face was black and blue. You should have seen it. Even now if you look under those glasses – ah, the bruising, she looks terrible –

  Flora Shut up, Mercy.

  Mercy I only meant –

  Flora Did you not have a more suitable pair of shoes?

  Mercy What?

  Flora I’ve told you about wearing brown and black together.

  Felix You’re not wearing b–black.

  Flora Black is too draining. Anyway this is Jean Muir. And I have to say I find it rich, yes, ripe that I am being criticised on my choice of – look at you! Did you seriously think that this was appropriate attire for your father’s funeral? You don’t even play – you were a horror when it came to ball games. In fact I don’t recognise you. Look at yourself. You’ve grown fat and unkempt. How could you do this?

  Mercy Should I pop home and change them?

  Flora Oh please go in, Mercy. See to the insect men. Wreak havoc with some potted shrimp, for Christ’s sake.

  Mercy Right. Yes. Good idea. You’ll be all right?

  Flora Oh yes, yes. My husband is dead and my only son, who has grown fat and strange, has just run away from his own father’s funeral. I’ll be fine. Fine. At least those bastard bees are gone.

  A moment, then Mercy leaves apologetically.

  Mercy Yes. Yes. Sorry, Flora.

  Felix and Flora stand there.

  Felix B–b–blessed are the p–p–peacemakers.

  Flora For they shall irritate the hell out of you … I saved up a long time for that operation.

  Felix I know.

  Flora Your father wanted me to – (carefully) he didn’t not want me to – he knew what it meant to me.

  Felix Yes.

  Flora I didn’t even know he was in the garden. I was upstairs, resting, when he collapsed. I couldn’t hear – the bandages covered my ears, muffled the sound. But I knew. I was reading Vogue and suddenly it dropped from my hands. Just fell to the floor. But there was nothing – he was dead in an instant, you know, his heart –

  Felix Yes.

  Flora I couldn’t bear to have his things. I couldn’t bear –

  Felix It doesn’t matter.

  Flora Perhaps I should have kept – for you – but really, you haven’t been here in such a long time –

  Felix Just because you can’t see something doesn’t mean that it isn’t there.

  Flora (sharply) What?

  Felix B–black holes. They’re not observable. Well, without very sophisticated microlensing techniques they’re not.

  Pause. Flora is wrong-footed.

  Flora Don’t try and blind me with science, Felix.

  Felix I’m not.

  Flora You made me look like a fool in that church. This is not something that I will be able to forgive, Felix.

  Felix No.

  Flora This is not something that I will be able to forget.

  Felix No.

  She turns to go, turns back.

  Flora What pills are you taking?

  Felix It’s nothing. Nothing. For nerves. Just to help me sleep.

  Flora I always know when you are ill.

  Felix Yes.

  Flora Well, you’re too old now for me to … Are you going back today?

  Felix I don’t know yet.

  She looks at Felix intently. The gardener Jim walks into the garden. He is in his sixties, thoughtful and quiet, even absent-minded, with a gentle sense of humour. Felix stares at him, Flora does not look at him. He carries a hoe and a bucket of ashes and tea leaves. He scatters the ashes under the rose bush, spreads them. Flora looks away, around the garden.

  Flora It’s such a beautiful day. Shame.

  She walks back into the house, giving the hive a wide berth. Jim glances at her as she leaves. Felix continues to look at Jim. Jim notices him watching.

  Jim I know, I know. I thought twice about coming today. But what with this hot weather, it all needs doing and your mother can’t bear it getting out of hand, can she?

  Felix No, she can’t.

  Jim (looking at the roses) This has definitely come out of itself today … (He dead-heads the bush.) I like the floribundas but Mrs Humble is fond of the hybrids. They smell sweeter of course. That always swings it for her. I’d go for more variety but she only wants the scented flowers. And I do as I’m told.

  Felix Yes.

  Jim This one’s a hybrid tea, Rosa ‘Josephine Bruce’. Don’t know who she was, Josephine, but she’s got quite a jolly flower named after her. Beautiful dark crimson, lovely scent –
and so easy. Positively rampant. Makes me think Miss Bruce must have been a bit of a goer in her day.

  Felix She might not be dead. Josephine B–b–b–

  Jim No, you’re right, she could still be at it. But often they are, aren’t they? Dead, I mean. And this is a nice way of carrying them on. For their family.

  Felix Yes.

  Jim You’d be surprised how many are named after the strangest people. There’s a pink climber called Bobby Charlton. Not that he’s dead. Or is he? Anyway, it’s a real blowsy thing, I always wondered if he had a hand in choosing it for himself. I rather hope he did … Sorry, listen to me, I’m not thinking. Are you all right, lad?

  Felix The b–b–bees are gone.

  Jim I know, it’s a sad day. Very sad. A hive without its bees. It says it all, doesn’t it?

  Felix I saw it. There were four of them. An apocalpse. In all their regalia. White with their veils on, carrying their boxes and the – you know – (He searches for the word.)

  Jim Smokers?

  Felix Yes.

  Jim To pacify the bees, I know.

  Felix It was strange. No, it was beautiful.

  Jim (smiles) Was it? (Jim enjoys the story of the bee-keepers.)

  Felix I was watching from upstairs and the sky was black with bees. But the bee-keepers didn’t panic.

  Jim No. They wouldn’t.

  Felix They placed a white sheet on the ground and reached up towards the bees. And what was odd – from where I was upstairs, from that angle, with the blackness of the sky and the whiteness of their suits, it seemed like they lifted right off the ground. It made me – I can’t describe it exactly – but it, it made me want to cry.

  Pause.

  Jim Don’t tell Mrs Humble, but there’s still some left.

  Felix What?

  Jim Bees. The ones that got away. They’ve outwitted her. God love ’em.

  Felix But the hive is empty.

  Jim No, not in the hive. Bombus hortorum. The garden bumblebee. There’s a nest underneath the shed. I found it just the other day. At least they look like hortorums.

  Felix You didn’t tell her?

  Jim If she wants her flowers, she should be thankful for some friendly neighbourhood bees. Anyway, they’ll die off soon. They’ll only last the summer, not like the honey-bees. I think we should leave them in peace, don’t you?